Chapter 6: Winter 1990

The weather started to deteriorate and soon sunny days were nothing but a distant memory. Each gust of wind found its way through wool cloaks and the air felt damp in a way that promised snowfall. The poor weather did little to deter Flint, however, who trained them with an alarming fervour— one would think he was captaining the English National team, rather than a group of school children. It wasn't uncommon for Harry to return to the Common Room minutes before curfew in desperate need of a shower, his muscles quivering from overexertion. Flint would fix him with a critical look at the end of every practice and point all the mistakes he had made. Then he would demand that Harry, "Fix it before I do." Harry wasn't sure what that meant, but he took the corrections to heart. Marcus Flint was not someone you wanted to disappoint.

On top of his rigorous Quidditch practices, classes increased in difficulty. Now that they were second years, the professors didn't feel the need to coddle them as much. The amount of homework had increased and Harry spent countless hours cooped up in the library, trying to stay ahead of it. Cedric and Grace joined him, more often than not, though the latter had much less schoolwork to do than the boys. Whilst they toiled away at transfiguring buttons into beetles and writing tedious essays on the movements of Uranus, Grace could often be found with her feet propped up on their table as she lounged beside them.

"What are you reading?" A bossy voice interrupted his concentration one afternoon in mid-December. It wasn't often others intruded on their study time— Madam Pince was far too strict to allow much conversation. Even his most devoted bullies knew not to cause trouble in the library. Harry glanced up from his potion's text in surprise, taking a second to recognise the bespectacled before them.

"Hullo, Percy," Cedric greeted the tall redhead before them.

Weasley nodded before refocusing his attention back on Grace, or rather, the tome in her lap. It was a heavy, leather-bound thing, written entirely in classical Latin. She had found in the Study the week prior and had been trying to decipher it ever since. Cedric had rolled his eyes and lamented being surrounded by "overeducated swots". Grace had admitted to Harry that she didn't know Latin, and was only pretending to read it just to spite Cedric. (Harry helped her find and apply a translation charm that night.)

"Where did you get that book?" Weasley demanded, a pinched look on his face.

Grace bristled at his tone. "I found it on a shelf."

"Which shelf?"

"The one with the books on it."

Weasley let out a scoff. "You stole it from the Restricted Section, no doubt."

Cedric and Harry shared an uneasy look. "Percy, lay off her, alright?" Cedric said, laying down his quill.

Neither the Gryffindor nor the First Year paid him any mind. Grace let out a cold, derisive laugh. "What, because I'm a Slytherin?"

Weasley pinched his lips together looking very much like he wanted to agree with her statement but didn't want to sound prejudiced. "Give me that, you have no business with it. You'll ruin it."

"Stop!" Grace snapped, hugging the book to her chest and shielding it from Weasley's grabbing hands. "It's mine!"

"Leave her alone, Percy," Cedric said, standing up and trying to intervene. "It's not a library book."

Weasley ignored him once again and dove for the book, only to let out a strangled yelp. "You bit me!"

"You asked for it!" Grace snarled, curling into herself.

"It's bleeding!"

Harry stood as well. Madam Pince was descending on the squabble with a fierce look in her eye, and he was in no mood to be banned from the library for eternity. Flicking his wand, their belongings packed themselves into their bags, which he slung over his shoulder. Nobody tried to stop them as they beat their hasty retreat, though the whispers from the other students could still be heard even after the heavy library doors swung shut behind them. He wrapped an arm around Grace and steered her down the corridor.

"I'm not going to apologise," she said.

Harry hugged her shoulders a little tighter. They retreated to the Study, where a new rule was established: no books were permitted to leave. Other than that, neither he nor Cedric mentioned the incident again, and Grace seemed rather keen on forgetting the entire ordeal. Unfortunately for her, Professor Snape didn't share the same mind-set. He descended on her at breakfast the next morning, a burning look in his eyes.

"Why has it come to my attention that you have been biting other students like a rabid cur?" he asked, sneering down his long hooked nose at Grace.

"Someone should remind him that snitches get stitches," she grumbled.

Harry choked on his tea. He didn't know whether to be impressed or worried about her cavalier attitude. Even Cedric wasn't so bold to give Snape such cheek.

Snape certainly wasn't impressed. "I have half a mind— what?"

"'Snitches get stitches,'" she repeated. "It means that people who tattle will wind up in trouble. I heard it in New York last summer."

Snape's lips went bone white and his voice dropped to a deadly whisper. Harry, who had been on the end of that voice on more than one occasion, slipped further into his seat and tried to make himself as small as possible. "I have half a mind to put you in detention for the rest of the year. Assaulting another student like a common muggle—"

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips. "It's not like I know any spells. I'm a First Year!"

"Do you think the Headmaster will care?" Snape asked.

Harry was so focused on the argument, he belatedly realised a sleek eagle owl had landed in front of him. It nipped at his knuckles when he didn't remove the package from its extended leg. He frowned at the strange owl but offered some of his bacon to appease it. He didn't recognise the owl to belong to any of his family members, but that didn't mean much. His father was a busy man who worked on some Transfiguration project Harry wasn't allowed to know about, and his barn owl was often gone for days on end. Uncle Remus didn't even have an owl and had to visit the Owl Post Office every time he wanted to send a letter.

Curious, he reached forward and untangled to package from the owl's leg. Freed from its burden, the owl let out a disgruntled hoot and took off, though not before clipping him in the head with one of its wings. He fumbled with the parcel, trying to open it while he watched the argument with a mixture of horror and fascination. Snape's face had turned an odd puce colour and looked seconds away from strangling her. Grace, meanwhile, was determined to showcase all of her chutzpah and lack of self-preservation. It was decidedly un-Slytherin. Or perhaps it was very Slytherin because her nerve and determination were rewarded when she managed to talk her way out of detention.

Harry tried not to laugh at Grace's theatrics ("I'm just a little girl. What was he thinking, coming at me like that?"), knowing it would only draw Snape's attention. Unlike his friend, he did not have the skill to talk his way out of trouble. Why were his friends all lunatics? he wondered as he finally managed to open the package.

A high pitched scream tore through the Great Hall, drawing the attention of everybody in it. Harry jumped, falling off the back of the bench, the package landing on the stone floor beside him. Students clutched at their ears and shouted at him to shut the package up. Red-faced, Harry dove for the shrieking package, but a voice rose out of it, halting him in his tracks.

"Not my babies, not my boys. Please, not my babies!"

The air left his lungs. He knew that voice. It didn't matter that he hadn't heard it in nine years. It was as beautiful and haunting as he remembered.

"Not them. Please no, take me. Kill me instead—"

He knew what would come next. He covered his ears, having no desire to hear his mother beg for mercy. Then came those words. Chilling, hateful, evil. A literal death sentence for anyone on the wrong end of them. They haunted his nightmares just as much as his mother's last words.

"Avada Kedavra!"

There was a flash of acid green light and a thud as his mother fell unseen to the floor. That should have been the end of it, but it wasn't. Of course it wasn't. Because he stepped out, rising out of the box, expanding like an Occamy, until he stood before Harry. Unlike the last time the two came face to face, Harry had his glasses on. He had no trouble seeing his pale, terrible face. He squatted down before him, his head twisting at an unnatural, inhuman angle.

"Time to die, Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort said, his voice even, cool, hissing. He raised his wand towards his face. Harry shut his eyes.

"Riddikulus!"

It was Professor Snape who cast the spell, not Voldemort. His voice was grating, heated, and full of fury.

It was nothing but a boggart, a small part of Harry's consciousness pointed out. Of course it was. Lord Voldemort was dead. Just like his mother.

"Your father too." It was a whisper, nothing more than a memory he had forgotten about.

"Potter," Professor Snape said. He was nearby, crouching beside him by the sound of it. Just as Voldemort had done.

(He bit down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood.)

Harry couldn't force his eyes to open, though he wished he could've. If he had, he wouldn't've had to relive the way his mother's body fell to the ground, or how Voldemort's crimson eyes surveyed him like a bug he wanted to squash. If he could open his eyes, he would be able to see the Great Hall, not his old bedroom in Godric's Hollow, its walls painted navy and decorated with gold stars. He wouldn't feel like he was sitting on his bed, John squirming and screaming in his lap.

"Potter," Snape said again.

Harry wanted to respond more than any time he had in his life. He wanted to open his eyes and look his Head of House in the eye. He wanted to laugh (because wasn't that how you finished off bogarts?) and say that he was fine. Because of course he was. He wasn't the snivelling, pathetic boy, Snape thought he was.

But his jaw was locked, proving that he was pathetic. His eyes were screwed shut just like a scared child. He was useless. He shut down when presented with a boggart like a pathetic child. For the first time in his life, Harry understood the term self-loathing.

"Mr Potter," Snape whispered.

Fury like he had never known welled up in his body. How dare he speak to him like that? He had no right to sound so gentle; like he cared. Harry's muscles spasmed, desperate to lash out and destroy. He wanted his damned limbs to move, to grab his wand, and hex Snape into a million pieces. His skin itched and crawled as if lightning was dancing across the surface.

A cold hand rested on his arm and long, spider-like fingers wrapped around his wrist. There was a great boom, and Harry knew nothing more.

Genius Fratris

He awoke to his father shouting. His father had shouted that night, too. Harry repressed a shiver and opened his eyes. He'd been moved to the Infirmary and someone had removed his glasses. He could see the vague outline of his father ranting at someone across the room, and beside him, were the blurry faces of Cedric and Grace. Cedric helped him sit up before handing Harry his glasses from the nearby table. When the room came into focus, he could see that his father was having a shouting match with Snape, of all people. The Potions Master was glaring at him with a look of malice he usually reserved for Harry.

"Oh, so a boggart decided to mail itself?" James asked.

Snape looked like he swallowed a lemon. "You have no proof of who did it!"

"We can start with those terrors he shares a dormitory with!"

"Feeling better?" Cedric asked, drawing his attention away from the feuding adults.

"I should hope so," Grace replied. "After what he did."

Harry wanted to ask her what had happened, but no sound came out.

"You blew up the Great Hall," she explained, ignoring Cedric's demands for her to shut up. "We had to have lunch in the Common Room."

Lunch? But they were eating breakfast. How long was he asleep for?

"'Blew up' is a strong—"

"And accurate—"

"Way of phrasing it," Cedric continued, ignoring her interruptions. "And it was only half of the hall."

"He blew out the window and the ceiling," Grace said, her hazel eyes wide and glittering with excitement. "Professor Flitwick cancelled class today so he could piece it back together."

Cedric stopped trying to fluff Harry's pillows and glared down at her. "You could try being a bit more sensitive," he snapped.

"Relax. Madame Pomfrey said he was fine," she said, leaning back in her chair and kicking her feet up onto his bed. She somehow managed to make it look cool, despite being so short. "There wasn't even a scratch on him. And I thought Harry was the worrier."

In all the time Harry had known Cedric, he had never heard him take a nasty tone with anyone. If he could feel anything other than the dull emptiness in his chest, he might have been surprised when Cedric lurched to his feet and glared at her. "Do you know what happened? Do you even know who that was?"

Harry thought this was a little unfair. As a Muggleborn, Grace wouldn't understand who Voldemort was or why people feared him. Sure, Harry had explained the basics, but there was only so much he knew and felt comfortable sharing. His brow furrowed as a spark of concern wove its way through his body. Harry sat up a little further, wanting to diffuse the impending argument but finding himself able to open his mouth. All the muscles in his face felt frozen.

Grace seemed to realise she was treading on thin ice. She righted herself and watched Cedric. "I can only guess it was the Voldemort bloke you all seem afraid of. I was trying not to bring it up, but since you want to discuss him so much—"

Red eyes, skin stretched tight over his skull, that awful, awful voice. A flash of green and pain. Harry shivered and his voice retreated further down in his chest.

Cedric, like so many wizards, flinched at the Dark Lord's name. "Don't say that name!"

"Why? He's dead," she snapped, rising to her feet. "What's there to be scared of?"

"An astute observation, Miss Cooper." It was Professor Dumbledore who spoke, standing behind her in leaf green robes embroidered with violets. "Fear of the name increases fear in the thing itself. Five points to Slytherin for your wisdom."

Grace looked like she was torn between beaming up at the Headmaster and sticking her tongue out at Cedric. She settled for tossing a triumphant look at her friend instead. Cedric rolled his eyes before returning to fussing over Harry, moving to allow Mr Potter to sit on the edge of the bed.

James pulled his son into a fierce hug before he pressed a kiss to his brow and tucked Harry under his arm. He wasn't sure if he was shaking more or Harry. He had been enjoying a quiet breakfast with John when he received the message that Harry had been in an accident. When he'd arrived at his former school twenty minutes later, smoke was billowing out of the Great Hall. Dumbledore himself had escorted James to the Hospital Wing, where his son lay unconscious.

The worry had turned to anger when Snape (Merlin he loathed that man), had described what had transpired over breakfast. Someone had thought it funny to send Harry a Boggart. Their attempts at humiliating him had backfired, however, after Lord freaking Voldemort appeared. The students, understandably, were sent into a panic at the sight of the long-dead Dark Lord. Then, to make it worse, Harry managed to blow up the Great Hall in a fit of accidental magic.

Harry's dorm mates were the obvious culprits to the crime, though Snape seemed content to ignore this. He was relishing in James's frustration, no doubt. When he sought justice through Professor Dumbledore, however, he found nothing but indifference. Whilst Harry was upset by what had occurred, no real harm had come to the boy. Besides, there was simply no evidence to implicate anyone. Even if they knew who the likely culprits were, they couldn't prove it. (James realised that Dumbledore hadn't said this in such a patronising tone, but he was at the end of his rope by that point.)

He focused his attention on his son, who looked well, all things considered. At least in the physical sense. Madam Pomfrey was a world-class healer— she wouldn't be working at Hogwarts if she wasn't the best of the best— but there were only so many things healing spells and potions could do. The shock of seeing your mother's murderer at breakfast wasn't something that could be fixed with the wave of a wand. Harry was quiet at the best of times, but his reaction to stress was a whole different basket of Kneazles. After Lily had died, something James was almost positive Harry could remember, his son fell silent. He didn't speak, he didn't cry, he didn't hum or laugh or any of the things little boys were supposed to do. Just unnatural and traumatised silence. The Healers he took him to had assured James that his son would speak when he was good and ready. Good and ready turned out to be six years later. He just hoped the silence wouldn't last so long this time.

"It seems Madam Pomfrey missed a spot," Dumbledore said, taking the seat next to the little Slytherin girl. He gestured to the scar on Harry's forehead with a sympathetic smile. "That looks painful."

Cedric shook his head. "That's always been there, Professor."

"Truly?" he asked, surprise gracing his features. "Well, I suppose it must have been. I should know better than to doubt dear Poppy's healing abilities. Might I inquire how you got it?"

Harry pursed his lips but didn't say anything. James would've been more surprised if he had. He reached up and brushed his fingers across the lightning bolt shaped that marred his son's brow before covering it over with his fringe. "It's from the attack."

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Nobody asked him which attack he was referring to (well, the girl—Grace, he thought she was called— seemed to want to, but Cedric shook his head). Harry tensed in his arms and James ran a comforting hand through his scruffy hair. Despite this, Dumbledore pushed on, much to James' annoyance.

"You seem to have a good idea of what Voldemort—" Cedric flinched and Snape hissed. "Looked like," Professor Dumbledore said, his tone sad.

Again, Harry offered no response. His fingers worried the crisp white sheets, stopping only when Cedric reached out to squeeze his hand.

"He was in the room that night," James responded in a terse tone when it became clear Harry wasn't about to. He kissed his temple and pulled him a little closer.

Harry leaned into his father's embrace, unable to feel embarrassed by it, despite the presence of his friends and professors. He closed his eyes and inhaled the woodsy musk that clung to his father's clothes, willing it to chase away the images of his mother's lifeless body. James Potter was very much alive, despite what Voldemort had told him all those years ago. His father was warm and his arms were strong around him. In his father's arms, he was safe.

The twinkle in the Headmaster's eye died at the pronouncement, his face growing hard. He leaned forward and tried to catch Harry's eye, which he resolutely ignored. "That must have been quite frightening for you, Harry," he said. "Was the boggart a memory of what happened to your brother?"

A hysterical laugh managed to bubble out of his chest before it too was squashed by this throat, like all the words he wanted to say. He wanted to shout at the Headmaster to bugger off, for one. Who did he think he was, asking him to relive the worst day of his life? He had never even met the man, and even if he had, Dumbledore had no right to his story.

Fortunately, his father seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Enough," his father snapped, his voice vibrating in his chest. "He's had enough for today."

"Of course," Dumbledore said, bowing his head in apology. "Forgive me, Harry. I forgot myself."

"You're distracting us from the real problem," Snape said in a pointed voice.

Dumbledore nodded, continuing to watch Harry through sad blue eyes. "Indeed. Dreadful events."

"The boy can't stay in the dormitory," Snape said, turning his dark eyes from Harry to the Headmaster.

"I agree," James replied, looking rather shocked at the fact. "There's no way he's going back there. At least until whoever sent him the package is punished. It wouldn't be safe."

"I'm more concerned with my other students," Snape growled. "After his little display in the Great Hall—"

Oh, right. He'd forgotten he'd blown that up.

"They won't be safe around him. Not if his magic is so unstable."

His father rose to his feet, his face flushing with rage. "This isn't Harry's fault."

Snape's dark eyes landed back on Harry. For once, they weren't full of hatred, but cold and detached. By comparison, his gaze was almost kind. "They're terrified of the boy," he drawled. "More so than they were before."

"For a bit of accidental magic?" James said with a disbelieving laugh.

"That was more than a 'bit' of accidental magic!" Snape snapped.

Cedric, bless him, leapt to Harry's defence. "It wasn't even his fault! You can't control accidental magic. It's not fair to punish him for it."

"It might have escaped your notice, Mr Diggory," Snape drawled. "But life isn't fair."

Harry found himself agreeing with the Potions Master, loath as he was to admit it. Most kids made things levitate or change colours, not explode. They certainly didn't damage a millennium-old castle in the process. Plus, he was twelve. What twelve-year-old still had bursts of accidental magic? Maybe he was dangerous and unstable.

"I set the barn on fire once," Cedric said, interrupting Harry's dark thoughts. "Mum said it was like I called a bolt of lightning from the Heavens, and the barn erupted in flames. All because I didn't want to help shear the sheep."

Cedric, ever the loyal Hufflepuff, was willing to toss himself in front of the hippogriff if it meant to make Harry feel better. Harry felt a rush of gratitude for his friend, which chased away the icy numbness in his limbs. He glanced up at his friend, his lips trying to twitch into an appreciative smile. Cedric seemed to understand and reached forward to give his hand another comforting squeeze.

"I vomited over my teacher in year three out of spite," Grace admitted.

Cedric's face twisted in disgust, an expression that echoed on Snape's. "That's not accidental magic."

"Well, no, but since we were sharing our accomplishments, I didn't want to be left out." And there was Grace. She might not be the most comforting presence, but she seemed to pick up on Harry's desire to be distracted. And whether her story was true or not, it had the intended effect of drawing the attention off of him, if only for a moment. It was nice having such loyal friends, Harry decided. And a father who was willing to fight for him.

"Peace," Professor Dumbledore said, holding up a hand and rising from his seat. "There will be no punishment."

That was how Harry found himself being moved into a private room. His father had managed to convince Snape to move him out of the Second Year's boy's dormitory, citing that Harry would be safe away from the bullies. Having a private room as a Second Year was unheard of in Slytherin; it was a privilege granted only to prefects and head students.

The change didn't please him as much as it once would have. Where he once would have rejoiced at the idea of escaping his tormentors, now he felt as if he was being punished, no matter what Dumbledore said. He was already ostracised enough by the other Slytherins; why did he have to be banished as well? The adults said it was for his safety, but if that was true, why didn't they look for the person who sent the ruddy boggart? They, not Harry, were the danger.

Snape hadn't been exaggerating when he said the other Slytherins were afraid of him. He felt their eyes watching him warily as he crossed the Common Room that evening. Warrington actually flinched when Harry showed up to collect his belongings. Loneliness crept through him as he folded up his robes and placed them in his trunk. He'd rather they ignore him than fear him.

Genius Fratris

Christmas came and went. His family was used to morose moods that they weren't surprised that he didn't speak for the entire holiday. Still, they included him in their holiday cheer and festivities, for which Harry was incredibly grateful; it was isolating enough not being able to tell John all about his term at Hogwarts. Presents were exchanged and opened, with Harry receiving what Uncle Sirius called an "alarming" amount of books. Grace sent a large box of Muggle sweets, which the brothers had great joy in sampling. Cedric gave him a new school bag to replace the one Harry had blown up when he tried to charm it to better accommodate a growing Medusa.

By contrast, New Year's was a quiet affair at the Potter household. With the full moon having been the night before, Uncle Remus spent the following days recovering whilst his father and Uncle Sirius kept him company. Harry and John were left in the care of the family house-elf, Acorn, who graciously allowed them to help her make cookies. She also turned a blind eye to the boys devouring the entire batch in the time it took for her to whip up another one.

When classes resumed two weeks later, it was with a heavy heart Harry boarded the Hogwarts Express. The only bright spot was the presence of his friends, who exchanged excited chatter about their holidays. Cedric visited his family mainly, whilst Grace was well-tanned after two weeks in India with her mother. Harry listened and pet Medusa, who spent most of the time asleep, waking only to catch the frog flavoured Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans that Cedric tossed her way.

"How can you even eat those things?" Grace asked, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "They're revolting."

Cedric gave her a conspiratorial grin "That's half the fun! Back me up on this Harry!"

Harry shook his head and gave him a fond smile.

"See, he agrees with me!"

"No, he doesn't!"

He tried to remember how they included him in their conversations when he lay in bed that night, hoping to keep the loneliness at bay. His room was smaller than his former dormitory, but it was more than adequate for a single occupant. All of the necessities were covered, with a spacious bed and a private bath. There was an empty shelf for his books and a handsome wood desk in the corner with a matching wardrobe. There was even a luxurious wingback armchair standing in front of a marble fireplace.

It was all his, and he resented it. It was a symbol of his alienation and his inability to fit in with the other Slytherins.

At least Medusa was pleased with the arrangement. She was getting too large to comfortably hide from the other boys and was pleased with the ability to slither around freely. She especially appreciated the fireplace, deeming it an acceptable addition to their 'nest'. (Harry spent the first evening back at school charming the hearth so that she couldn't make a real nest in the flames.)

Harry tried to spend the least amount of time in his chambers as possible. He spent so much time in the library that even Madam Pince had started to notice and would greet him by name every time he visited. At first, Grace complained bitterly about having to trudge up several floors to do her homework when there was a perfectly good library steps away from the Slytherin Common Room. That was until Cedric pointed out that the only Parselmouth in England was out of commission. It took all of three weeks for Grace to come up with a solution. After classes on the first Friday of February, Grace had instructed (demanded) them to meet her in the Entrance Hall for an 'adventure'.

"Where are we going?" Cedric asked, drawing his wool cloak over his shoulders. It had snowed the previous day and neither boy was keen on stomping across the grounds. Grace ignored their protests (well, Cedric's at least) and led them through the oak doors and into the chilly afternoon air.

"Well, my mum's a doctor— you know, a muggle healer— and well, I wrote to her, about Harry," she began, shooting Harry an apologetic look. "And she told me that there've been studies that show that animals help with trauma. Especially horses. I thought we might try and find some?" She said in a tiny voice, looking more uncertain of herself by the minute. She reached into her knapsack and pulled out a handful of raw meat wrapped in butcher paper. She offered it to Harry. "You mentioned they're carnivores?"

Cedric gave her a bemused smile. "But there aren't any horses at Hogwarts."

Grace and Harry gave Cedric a confused look of their own. "I mean, there are those winged ones," she pointed out. "Is that not what they're called?"

Harry frowned and shrugged. They certainly looked like horses, though he never had figured out what they were.

Cedric grinned. "You're having me on!" he declared with a chuckle. But when neither of them joined in, the smile melted off his face. "Seriously, what are you talking about?"

The two Slytherins shared a look, trying to gauge their sanity. If both of them saw it, it must exist, right?

"They're these big black horses. With wings and fangs," Grace explained, flapping her arms before miming fangs with her fingers. "You must have seen them. They pull the carriages to and from Hogsmeade."

Harry nodded emphatically when Cedric cast them a dubious look.

"Right," he drawled.

Grace drew her wand and shot off a sting hex, hitting Cedric in the arm. "I'm not mad."

"I didn't say you were!"

"You were thinking it!"

There was one person who Harry could think of that would put that matter to rest. Harry huffed in frustration at his friends' bickering before spinning on his heels and taking off in the other direction. They scrambled after him, their argument already long forgotten.

"Harry!" Hagrid bellowed as he approached. The groundskeeper was out front of his hut, alternating between chopping firewood and tossing sticks for his massive boarhound to chase. "How's yer father doin'?"

He shot Hagrid a smile and a thumbs up.

Hagrid let out a guffaw and ruffled Harry's hair, nearly knocking him to the ground in the process. "What can I do fer yeh?"

Grace took it upon herself to explain their situation, if not a tad abrasively, leaving Cedric huffing and rolling his eyes. Hagrid took it in stride, despite never having met either of Harry's friends before, and patiently listened to Grace's description of the skeletal horses they had seen.

Hagrid nodded in understanding, his dark eyes… sad? "Yeh'll be talkin' about the thestrals, then," he said. "Dead useful, they are."

"So they do exist?" Cedric asked. "They pull the carriages?"

Hagrid nodded again. "I take it yeh want to meet 'em?"

Harry nodded, a grin breaking out on his face. He took the offering of meat from Grace and showed it to Hagrid. "He mentioned they like meat," Cedric translated.

"Yeh're a good lad, Harry," Hagrid said. "I suppose there's no harm in showin' 'em to yeh. They live in the forest, mind yeh, so stick with me."

The three students nodded eagerly and trotted after Hagrid, who patiently answered their questions. When they stopped in a large clearing, Hagrid cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a shrieking cry, reminiscent of the one Harry had heard the thestrals make. He grinned over at Cedric, who was bouncing with excitement. Several minutes and another shriek later, a single thestral emerged from the dense forest.

Heart leaping in his chest, Harry pulled out a strip of meat from Grace's stash and approached the beast. It watched him for a minute through those blank white eyes, trying to decide if he was trustworthy. Harry extended the meat. It shrieked in delight, almost knocking him over in its desperation to get to the food. When it had finished gobbling up its snack, the thestral began nudging his pockets, looking for more. He huffed in amusement before offering the thestral another piece of meat.

"I don't get it," Harry heard Cedric say. "What's he doing?"

"He's feedin' the thestral," Hagrid explained.

"But there isn't— he doesn't— where is—" Cedric's splutters of confusion had Harry turning around.

Hagrid gave them a kind smile. "I'd be surprised if yeh could see 'em, Cedric," he said. "Yeh're awfully young."

"What's that got to do anything?"

"Thestrals can only be seen by someone who's witnessed death," Hagrid explained.

Grace let out a soft little "oh!" and drew closer to Hagrid, hiding behind his moleskin overcoat. Harry turned around and surveyed the skeletal creature in front of him. Suddenly, the thestrals weren't so exciting any more.

"They're clever creatures, an' dead useful. Amazin' sense o' direction an' capable o' flyin' over great distances. They've got a bad reputation 'cause o' the death thin', but they're peaceful enough," Hagrid continued as if this was a Care of Magical Creatures class.

After a moment of hesitation, Grace stepped out from Hagrid's shadow, approaching the Thestral with a look of determination. "What's its name?"

"This one's called Ebony," said Hagrid. "Named after a former student. She was a bit off her rocker, now tha' I think about it... thought she was a vampire, o' all things." He shook his head as if to clear it of the thought. "She's got a colt around here, somewhere. Dark'ness."

And sure enough, a spindly-legged thestral trotted into the clearing, its high pitched shrieks echoing through the trees.

"It's so ugly it's almost cute," said Grace, offering the newcomer a piece of meat.

"I wish I could see it," Cedric said in a wistful voice.

"Well, when you watch one of your parents die, you can join the club." There was an awkward silence for a moment. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me," she said, not meeting anyone's eye.

Cedric stepped forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Was it your dad?"

She nodded before bending forward and tickling the baby thestral under the chin. It squealed and collapsed to the ground, presenting its side for her to scratch. "He was a firefighter. One day his luck ran out. I was eight." Her voice wobbled at the end and she drew away from Cedric, trying and failing to surreptitiously wipe her tears. The baby thestral scrambled after her and head-butted the back of her knees with its head.

"Lost my dad too, when I was about yer age," said Hagrid, patting her back. "There's no shame in cryin', Gracie. No shame at all."

Ebony the thestral let out a soft, haunting cry and nudged Harry again. He lifted his hand and stroked her soft, leathery neck. When he noticed Cedric watching, he held out his hand and helped Cedric place a hand on the thestral's muzzle. His dark grey eyes widened in shock at the sensation.

They didn't stay long after that. They trudged out the forest and bid Hagrid a gloomy farewell before making their way up to the castle. It was too early for dinner but too late to make it back to their respective Common Rooms, so the three friends loitered in the Entrance Hall, shuffling their feet against the stone floor and avoiding eye contact with each other.

"That was a good idea," Cedric said at last. His tone was genuine and free from sarcasm. "Thank you for thinking of it. Even if I couldn't see them."

Grace shot Cedric a watery smile before tucking herself under his arm. "What did you think, Harry? Did you like them?"

Harry pursed his lips as he considered the question. Until Hagrid had dropped the whole 'can only be seen if you've seen death' dungbomb, he had enjoyed himself immensely. Perhaps that was unfair of him, to judge the thestrals. Before, he thought they were cute, in their own ghastly way, and they were no different after Hagrid had explained why Cedric couldn't see them. Harry gave his friend a nod and a shy smile.

Then something happened, shocking the three students: Harry giggled. It wasn't particularly loud and it almost sounded like he was choking. It wasn't even the progress that they had hoped for. He wasn't ready to speak yet, but one day he would. When he was ready, and on his own terms. After months of silence, a giggle was progress. And for now, that was enough.

Seconds later, Cedric and Grace pounced on him, enveloping him in a tight hug. When students stumbled across the scene later they rolled their eyes at the puppy puddle and stepped over them to get to dinner. Even the cold-hearted Professor Snape didn't deduct house points from them. Though that might have had something to do with the broad grin and peals of laughter coming from a certain dark-haired Slytherin trapped at the very bottom of the pile.


"We don't heal in isolation, but in community."S. Kelley Harrell


A/N: You can thank my recent surgery for this quick (at least for me!) upload. I'm about to crawl up the walls.

Also, if you think Harry seems particularly bratty this chapter, then that means I accomplished what I wanted to do.

Let me know what you thought of the chapter! I promise I do read every comment you leave me! -CheckAlexa